The Forgotten One
by zero degreez
Summary: An encounter bound by fate. Writing it as I go.


SHINRA MANSION

NIBELHEIM

UNKNOWN YEAR

The tank burst, pressured to breaking point from within. Green Mako fluid spilled out onto the cold hard concrete floor where years of dust had gathered undisturbed. The seemingly ancient stillness of the basement shattered and for the first time in two and a half years there was a real, live human there.

He fell out of the tank, sprawled on the floor. He stank of a sickening mustiness, if anyone were there to smell it, and Mako oozed from his pores and orifices. For a while, days perhaps, he lay there; unaided, in his own bastard world of dizziness and confusion where time was of no essence. In later years he would not be able to recollect the count of days spent laying helpless on the floor. No measurement and no memory, save for a vivid yet hazed picture of green vomit and the most terrible sickness to ever befall anyone.

It was Mako poisoning, and this tortured man suffered from it worse than possible in the darkest crevices of any person's imagination. When he finally "awoke" it was sudden, painful like streams of lightning surging through his veins, searing everything. When it was over he vomited the sickly green substance once more and stood up.

The basement was dark. The only light was the supernatural glow of the remaining Mako. Stumbling around in the dark, he found a still working lamp and lit it. It was circular except for a short tunnel leading to another, smaller circular room. Both had tall standing book cases, with rows upon rows of literature. In later days he would explore much of it, learning of Jenova and SOLDIER and the Ancients, and men named Shinra and Gast and Hojo, and of a certain incredible specimen named Sephiroth, who's name appeared often in the latest volumes.

But now the man explored the basement, and discovered the desks and surgery tables and other Mako tanks. He ventured to the rest of the basement; he found a room bare except for an open; empty coffin, he found a long circular wooden staircase, broken in some places, that ascended an equally cylindrical stair room; he emerged from a fireplace to a chamber with closed shutters and found adjacent, almost identical area and a small stair that led to the large hallway with a grand staircase that descended to the first floor. On his way back he opened the shutters and collapsed to the ground, covering his burning eyes with his hands. The Sun. Somehow he recollected its name, though language had yet to return to him. After crawling out of the room and leaning up against a wall, breathing heavily and with great effort of both mind and body he spoke aloud: "The Sun!"

His voice was croaky and harsh, symptomatic of no use for years uncounted. He drooled and spat green tinted saliva as he said it and, finally breaking down, rolled to his side and sobbed uncontrollably.

He cried for many things. He cried for his forgotten life that loomed over him on the edge of recollection but too cruel to ever cross into the realm of memory, he wept for his namelessness, he wept for his aching body and dry throat and still burning eyes, he wept for his lost culture never to be regained, he lamented his nakedness, his own dead green aura and abyss of black hair that reflected in the mirror. And then quickly, like the flash of a lightning strike during a rain storm, his sadness turned to anger.

He thrashed about at first, pounding his fists on the floor, screaming a bloody scream of anguish only capable from the most brutally tortured. He shattered the mirror with a punch and the shards shredded his skin. He struck the walls, indenting them in anger. He struck the floors, leaving holes into rooms unknown. He threw a book case that crashed down into the basement, sounding terribly into the caves. The citizens of Nibelheim perceived the storm from outside, and withdrew to their homes and locked their doors. The livestock huddled together and shook uncontrollably as if the devil himself appeared before them. Dogs whined, birds scattered and insects burrowed deep in the earth. There was a fire strike of electricity from above, and then it was over.

The man collapsed and shivered; frigid, weak, sick. He vomited. The lacerations from the glass leaked green. His mind could not bear the utmost pain inflicted upon his wreck of a body. He passed out.

BETWEEN KALM AND MIDGAR

NOVEMBER 0009

Renewed, rejuvenated Cloud Strife. That's who he was, and he felt great.

The warm wind blew in his hair, the Sun shone and warmed his heart. The sky was a peaceful blue, uninterrupted by any cloud or squall. He was focused, yet laid back; he was energetic, yet thoughtful. Business was good and his family was even better; to them he was an charismatic father and partner and to his friends he was again the fearless and cunning leader. There was no hiding, for he had nothing to hide. Not anymore. No weight of the past on his shoulders, just the life of the future coursing his veins. No stigma, no guilt, no conflict, no trouble. Only optimism and grace.

Renewed, rejuvenated Cloud Strife. And life was good.

He was leaning back on his bike on the cliff overlooking the Midgar wreck. Even that looked bright and cheerful today. That particular cliff was special to him; it usually evoked everything negative within him, but not today. The old Buster Sword stood as a monument untouched, undaunted, unbreakable. At its base a bush of flowers - pink and white and yellow- grew, absorbing the sun and emitting happy rays.

He came here often. Whenever he could. Before, it was a place of mourning and grief- a doleful reminder of his sins. But not anymore. Now it was a memorial to a fallen friend but also a marking point to the beginning of a new life. He was living his own life, and living it for another.

In the past couple of months since the stigma disappeared, he learned a lot of things. He learned to relax, appreciate what he had and make the most of any predicament. He learned that he was as important to his friends as they were to him. He learned to smile and return kindness with kindness. Above all, he learned his place as a role model and what it meant to be a good father and partner.

He flipped open his cellphone and dialed home. He learned that communication was the cornerstone of any relationship, friend or not. When he failed in the past he often couldn't communicate his problem to others. He wasn't perfect, and sometimes he didn't know the words to use or how to express his thoughts and occasionally now he internalized them completely, but he was getting better. He felt it in most aspects of his life. His family trusted him more. When he said he would be home for dinner, they believed him. When he said he was going to be late or wouldn't be in for a few days, they trusted in him enough to not worry. It was a kind of trust he hadn't felt before, and it felt great.

A soft but strong woman answered. "Hello, Seventh Heaven and Strife Delivery Service. You name it we-"

"You don't need to advertise my own business to me."

On the other end, Tifa quietly laughed. "How's Denzel and Marlene?" Cloud asked.

"Oh, you know. They've been good. They're both in school right now."

"Are you busy?"

"Well, no. We haven't really had many cus-"

"Tifa, are you busy?"

He could almost see her smile on the other end. "No."

"I'll be home in a couple of hours."

"I'll close down the bar then."

"You don't have to." He heard the silence of consideration.

"No, I don't."

"See you then." She said goodbye and he closed his phone and tucked it away in his pocket. He hopped on his bike, ran a hand through his spikey blonde hair and put on his riding goggles. He looked down at the flowers that grew without tending. Before he left, he spoke as if to the molecules of the air: "Remind me to make it up to you," and picked two out.

He felt his phone vibrating as he rode the plain towards Edge. He turned his motorcycle and raised a haze of dust, removed his goggles and reached for his phone. It was an unknown number. He answered "Strife Delivery Service."

"Cloud, we need your help." said a deep, slightly rough voice.

"I thought I told you I wasn't interested in working for Shinra, Rufus."

"This isn't about Shinra."

Annoying. "Apparently it wasn't about Shinra last time." Cloud said, referencing to his previous meeting with the ex president when they were both suffering from the stigma where Rufus and the Turks tried to convince him to work for them and as Reno revealed, rebuild Shinra.

"This time I promise."

"What is it?" He asked coolly.

"There's been a" Rufus paused and then said eloquently "_disturbance_ in your home town"

Cloud felt his heart rate pick up. "Nibelheim," The place where it all began. The place where his life was torn to pieces, the place of his darkest memories. "Not interested" he said sternly.

"Cloud," Rufus said in a tone amazingly reminiscent of Zack, "you can't keep running away."

"I'm not running."

"It's your home town."

"I have nothing to do with that place." He felt his emotions flare. "Nothing at all. Not anymore. Whatever is left ... thats your problem."

"Cloud, please reason."

"I'm not interested." He meant to end the call but for some reason held on.

"If it wasn't for my Turks being deployed on ... other missions I wouldn't have even called you."

"I don't care."

Rufus seemed to enjoy the tension he was building up. Just to break it. He knew Cloud wouldn't hang up. "All it is is a loosed monster outside of town." He let Cloud soak it in. "Not on the old reactor side."

There was a silence. Cloud forgot about Tifa, and the fact that he had already told her he would be home soon. Subconsciously, perhaps, he felt the desire to return to his past. Thats why he didn't hang up, or refuse for that matter.

"You have my word."

A flash of images rolled through his mind; a young Tifa, his mother,Tifa's father, the well, that starry night underneath it, Zack, the mansion.

Sephiroth. The nightmare was still alive in his mind. He felt him in every waking step; a dark thought on the borders of his mind, a grim storm on the horizon. At the worst of times he consumed his waking thoughts and his night time dreams. Always his malicious figure amongst the flames, always the cold stare as he plunged-

"Cloud?"

He shook himself from his thoughts. "I'll be there in a day."

"I need you there quicker than that."

"You're out of luck. I have to cross the ocean."

"Not to worry. I have already sent a helicopter for you."

"You mean you-"

"Goodbye, Cloud."

He heard the roaring of a chopper behind him. He looked towards Edge with guilt. Tifa would be cleaning up and cooking a meal now, expecting him. The kids would be just getting let out of school, going home and hoping that Cloud would be there. He hated the thought of their disappointed faces, and Tifa's bewildered and sad expression when he let her down. He knew that she would be with him through anything, but he never truly knew how to return the jest. He learned to phone when something came up that would delay him, but this time he put his phone away.


End file.
